A Friend in Need
by storylover18
Summary: A three-part story (that has turned into a seven-part story!) about a friend in need ... don't want to spoil the story by giving a name but a certain someone will come to the rescue at 221B. Sick!Sherlock and injured!John. Non-slash, just friendship.
1. Part 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hello, everyone! It's been forever since I posted something new and while I had this idea for awhile, it's taken a bit to actually write it. Some of the credit for this story must go to **_**Cumberbatch Critter**_**, as the idea came from a conversation with her. Here's part one of three. Enjoy! **

Sherlock had barely opened an eye before regretting it. Most days, he loved waking up and getting to work but today was not most days. He should have taken it as an omen; waking up with a headache just spelled misery for the coming day. However, he had never had much time for his transport and pushed himself into a sitting position. His eyes began to run in the bright light and he brushed tears from them, willing himself to wake up.

Sherlock forced himself to get out bed and make it, pulling the sheets up carelessly before straightening the duvet. He surveyed his closet and decided it was a good day for all black. By the time Sherlock had washed up and went into the kitchen, he felt no more awake than he had fifteen minutes earlier.

"Morning." John greeted him, coming into the kitchen.

"Morning." Sherlock said from the coffee pot. Maybe a nice strong cup of coffee would heighten his senses. Sherlock sat with the morning paper and hid behind it, lest John notice the red eyes.

"Do you want some breakfast?"

"Just toast, thanks."

A moment later, a plate with two pieces of toast was slid across the table and Sherlock glanced down at them wearily. His stomach, he felt, could not take much food this morning. However, he picked up the piece of bread slathered in peanut butter and bit into it aggressively. Sherlock managed to swallow the sparse breakfast but soon regretted it. Sitting at the table, his stomach was threatening to revolt so he got up and started walking around the kitchen.

"What are you doing?" John asked, tea cup halfway to his mouth.

"Observing."

"Observing what?"

"Nothing, you wouldn't understand. Go back to your breakfast."

John merely shook his head before taking a sip of tea.

"What are you doing today?"

Sherlock glanced up, unsure if talking was a good idea but he couldn't very well ignore John's question.

"I don't know. I haven't checked the website."

Just to avoid suspicion, Sherlock went back to the table against his will and opened the laptop.

"Anything good?"

"Nothing."

Sherlock couldn't decide if he was happy or not that the website was void this morning.

On the one hand, a case would keep his mind off of, well, everything but on the other hand, Sherlock had a sinking suspicion his stomach would only cooperate so long.

No.

The mental pop-up in his mind told him that no, he was _not_ going to be sick, he was in control of his body and it wouldn't do anything he didn't want it to. It was a good mentality, Sherlock decided, but it didn't last long.

It took no more than John holding up a Ziploc bag of earlobes half an hour later for Sherlock to clasp his hand over his mouth, which was ridiculous because he had put them in the fridge in the first place.

"Sherlock?" John called, still holding the bag by the corner, as Sherlock ran for the bathroom, slamming the door closed. John glanced at the baggie, tossing it back in the fridge, and sighing. He switched the kettle on, pulling out the peppermint tea.

* * *

Meanwhile, Sherlock was discovering the true meaning of misery. Several times he vomited, although the last couple of times his body simply went through the painful motions, not realizing there was nothing left to bring up. Finally, after several minutes, Sherlock stood up shakily, brushing his teeth while he studied his reflection. He was not what one might call the picture of health; he was ghastly pale, not to mention the bit of sweat that had acquired during his … experience. His eyes were still red and running, accented nicely by dark bags underneath. Sherlock splashed some water onto his face again, hoping to freshen up a bit.

Sherlock opened the door hesitantly, realizing that John was most likely going to go all doctor on him. But John was calmly washing up from breakfast, rubber gloves immersed in the soapy sink. Good.

Sherlock proceeded to his chair and sat.

"That," he said. "was disgusting."

"It always is." John answered without looking up. Sherlock braced himself for the questions but none came. Odd … good, but a bit odd. The flat was silent for awhile and the only noise Sherlock could hear was the sloshing of the water in the sink.

"Here," John said, startling Sherlock. He opened his eyes – when had John finished the dishes? – to see John holding out a teacup.

"Thank you." Sherlock said, taking it and putting it aside immediately.

"It's peppermint," John said, sitting with his own cup. "It'll calm your stomach."

"Then why are you drinking it?" Sherlock asked.

"Because it also tastes good."

John could tell Sherlock was waiting for him to ask questions and part of John – the doctor part, obviously – wanted to ask them. But all he asked was,

"Are you okay?"

Sherlock scoffed a bit. What a stupid question.

"Of course I'm alright."

John merely raised an eyebrow and sipped his tea.

* * *

By afternoon, Sherlock was far from alright, not to say that he had been alright that morning to begin with because he hadn't been. He had merely been able to hide it better.

* * *

By early evening, John didn't need a medical degree to know that Sherlock was suffering from some sort of virus that made him a permanent fixture in the bathroom.

"Sherlock?" John called through the bathroom door about half an hour after he heard Sherlock vomit last.

"What?" Sherlock sounded absolutely miserable.

"Can I come in?"

"If you must."

John decided that he really must, to use Sherlock's terminology, and opened the bathroom door. Sherlock was huddled in a ball by the toilet, knees drawn in and head resting in his arms.

"Why don't you go to bed?" John asked.

"Because I'll be sick again sooner or later." Sherlock's voice was muffled by his dressing gown sleeve. He had long abandoned his black suit for the comfort of his pyjamas, although nothing would make him comfortable right now. Not when his body was insisting on being ill.

"I'll bring you a bin."

"No."

There was no way that Sherlock Holmes was going to vomit into a bin. How humiliating. John sighed.

"Fine, then I'll bring your bed here."

John went into Sherlock's room and pulled the blanket off and took his pillow in his hands, bringing them to the bathroom.

"Lie down," John said when Sherlock looked at him warily. "Trust me, you need to get some rest."

Sherlock groaned as he did was he was told. He hated it but he knew John was right. He accepted the pillow from John and curled into a ball while the duvet landed on top of him. Sherlock instinctually pulled it close, not realizing how cold he had been.

"Have you taken any medicine?" John asked, a look of amusement on his face. This was quite possibly the most ridiculous thing he had ever seen; a grown man curled up on the bathroom floor. Sherlock mumbled something along the lines of 'thrown it up' and John sighed (again). He'd have to get something that dissolved under the tongue. He checked his watch – it was almost eight o'clock on a Sunday night, which meant most stores would be closed.

"Are you sure you don't want to go back to your bed?" John asked awhile later as Sherlock lay shivering on the floor. Despite his instance of being sick again, nothing had happened.

"It'd be a lot more comfortable and the bathroom's not _that_ far away, especially if we open the door from your bedroom."

Sherlock wasn't inclined to move. While it had seemed ridiculous for John to bring him a pillow and blanket, he had gotten quite comfortable on the bathroom floor and didn't feel like moving. Moving would take effort, moving would hurt.

But again, Sherlock knew John had a valid point. If he could just fall asleep and stay asleep, he'd be on the whole a lot less miserable.

"Fine," he muttered, sitting up slowly. The world was spinning dangerously – Sherlock _hated_ that feeling – and his eyes were watery. He sniffed – ugh, stupid nose … so trivial and yet demanding his attention – as he fumbled with the blankets. John reached a hand down to help him up but Sherlock ignored it. His pride had been hurt enough without John having to help him to bed.

Sherlock finally got to his feet and reached a hand to the wall to steady himself. He let John worry about the pillow, blankets, and undoubtedly a bin, and fumbled with the lock on the door to his bedroom. Sliding the door open, he made straight for his bed, collapsing onto it with a large sigh.

"John?" he muttered, eyes already closed as John tucked the pillow underneath his head and replaced his blanket.

"Yes?"

"This is atrocious."

John smiled sympathetically.

"It will go away eventually." John answered. "Just give your body some time to heal. I'll be upstairs if you need anything tonight."

"Where else would you be?" Sherlock muttered and John rolled his eyes.

"Good night, Sherlock."

**Okay, so I know it's nothing special but I have to set the stage for parts two and three, which I'm very excited to write. Now if only my schedule will allow me time to write … anyways, reviews are always appreciated! **


	2. Part 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hello, everyone! It's been a week since I posted Part One … surprise, surprise. Actually, to be honest, I am surprised that I've updated in only one week. If you knew my schedule, you may be surprised as well. My crazy life aside, thank you, as always, for your wonderful words of support and encouragement. They mean the world to me and put a smile on my face. So without further adieu … Part Two!**

John had left Sherlock sleeping soundly enough and when the blogger checked on his friend before heading up to bed, he was still snoring softly. Good, maybe this virus would be short lived, John thought as he climbed the stairs. He fell into his own bed, tired from the day and he fell asleep quickly.

* * *

John woke up around four o'clock the next morning, regretting his midnight cuppa. He urgently had to go to the loo so, sliding on slippers and dressing gown, John went downstairs. He relieved himself and then, keeping the light off, went into the kitchen for a glass of water. John was on the way to the cabinet to get a tumbler when he fell. It was quite a spectacular fall, one in which John's foot got hooked around something and he went sprawling, hitting his head on the counter before his path diverted him to the floor.

"Ow!"

"Ow!"

"Sherlock?" John exclaimed, surprised by the second voice. "What are you doing here?"

John was tangled in Sherlock, who was lying on the kitchen floor. He slowly unwound himself from the detective, feeling slightly dizzy from his hit on the head. The doctor tried to stand but fell again when he put weight on his right foot.

"Really, John, could you be more careful?" Sherlock complained as John picked himself up a second time. John switched on the light over the sink and turned to look at his friend.

"You're one to talk," John said, leaning on the counter to take weight off his foot. "What are you doing here? It's four o'clock in the morning."

"I was resting, like you told me to."

"On the kitchen floor?"

Sherlock paused for a moment.

"I don't really remember how I got here," he began. "But I'm fine … more or less."

John was suspicious of Sherlock's 'more or less' and saw on Sherlock's face that he was less fine than more. He looked around quickly, pulling a mixing bowl from the cupboard and handed it to Sherlock, who was sick in it.

"How distasteful," Sherlock said, setting the bowl aside when he was through. "Honestly, I was doing so well until you woke me up."

"Then go back to sleep," John said. "In your _bed_. Come on, up."

John left the safety of the counter and helped Sherlock off the floor, noting his head hurt a lot more when he was leaning over. He'd have to get some ice on that soon. Sherlock didn't complain too much as John tucked him back in-between his sheets, although he did notice the limp.

"You really shouldn't be walking on that if you hurt it."

"I'll be fine," John said, sticking the thermometer in Sherlock's mouth before the detective could say anything else. His head was pounding now. The thermometer beeped and John wasn't surprised to see Sherlock's fever as high as it had been earlier that evening. Dutifully – and painfully – John retrieved some more paracetamol and a glass of water.

"The least you could do," John said when Sherlock ignored him when he re-entered the room. "Is take the medicine that I limped to find for you."

"It's your own fault for getting yourself injured," Sherlock said without turning over.

"My fault? For tripping over _you_ in the _kitchen_. Right, completely my fault." John said sarcastically.

"That's what I said, isn't it?" Sherlock said, rolling over and taking the pills from John's hand. He gulped them back and laid down again, silently dismissing John.

The doctor turned off the light and hobbled into the kitchen where he retrieved an ice pack for his head and one for his ankle before flopping on the sofa. It wasn't as comfy as his bed but he didn't think he'd make the stairs. Settling himself with the ice, he shortly fell asleep.

* * *

When John awoke, it was to the sensation that he was going to vomit. John wasn't entirely sure why he felt that way – at first he thought that he had caught Sherlock's virus but then he remembered the night before. His head was pounding mercilessly despite the presence of the ice pack, which had been there for almost four hours. The doctor sat up hesitantly but he regretted this choice. The world began to spin as he rose to the point where he had to run to the bathroom.

_Run_ is a bit of an overstatement. John stood up quickly and went towards the hallway but one step on his ankle and down he went. He hit the floor hard and ended up puking into a canvas magazine holder. After catching his breath, John slowly picked himself up knowing he would have to go to hospital. Throwing up after hitting one's head was a sure sign of a concussion and his ankle was quite swollen and very painful.

"Sherlock?" John called, getting to his feet with the help of the wall. John limped down the hallway and entered the bedroom.

"Sherlock?" John asked again. Sherlock was sprawled in his bed and John felt bad for waking him.

"Sherlock?"

"What?" Sherlock had heard John the first and second time but hoped that by ignoring him, he'd go away. Whatever it was had better be important.

"I'm going out for a bit, alright?"

Sherlock cracked open one eye.

"You woke me up to tell me _that_?"

"Just so you know. I think Mrs. Hudson's downstairs if you need anything."

"Why would I need anything?" Sherlock asked, closing his eyes again. John merely rolled his own eyes and began to leave, pausing when Sherlock spoke again.

"And where are you going?"

"A&E."

Sherlock opened his eyes again.

"A&E?"

"Yes." John said a bit defensively. "I seem to have injured myself in my fall last night."

"Oh. Why did you do that?"

There was no sense of guilt in Sherlock's voice, just sleepiness and a hint of implied stupidity so John left Sherlock to sleep, hoping he'd stay sleeping while he was out.

* * *

John arrived home seven hours later on a pair of crutches and clutching a bag with prescription medication. His A&E visit had been tedious, to say the least. An incompetent doctor, an x-ray tech who couldn't take pictures properly, and a nurse who barely knew one end of a thermometer from the other. Couple that with the crying child on his left and the puking man on his right, John was not in a good mood by the time he arrived back at 221B.

The A&E doctor, once he had finally gotten around to seeing John, had ordered a plethora of tests and after all the results, he determined what John suspected: a concussion and a badly sprained right ankle. John had thrown up a few more times since that morning so the doctor had prescribed an anti-nausea medication, as well as medication for pain and swelling. John had painstakingly left the hospital on a pair of crutches and after a heck of a time trying to finagle them in and out of a taxi, managed to get to a Tesco's and then home.

The stairs had proved difficult and John was grumpy by the time he made it to the top of the staircase. The first thing John noticed was that the flat smelled heavily of vomit. He wasn't sure if that was because of his accident that morning or Sherlock, but either way, it was not pleasant. John decided he'd better check on Sherlock so manoeuvring down the hallway, he entered Sherlock's bedroom. His heart sank at what he saw.

It appeared as though Sherlock had not so much as _moved_ since John left that morning, except to maybe throw up into the bin John had placed in his room the night before.

"Sherlock?"

John moved clumsily towards the bed and reached, laying a hand on Sherlock's forehead. Whatever had made Sherlock sick, John realized, it was not a twenty-four hour bug. His temperature was much higher than it should have been.

"Sherlock, wake up."

It was so annoying … all he wanted to do was sleep and yet John was insistent on him opening his eyes. He obliged but didn't say anything.

"Have you taken any paracetamol or anything today?"

Sherlock didn't answer, blinking slowly.

"Have anything to eat?"

Nothing.

"Not even anything to _drink_?" John couldn't believe it and sighed as Sherlock's eyes slipped closed again. John looked around feeling a bit hopeless.

He needed help. There was no way he'd be able to clean up Sherlock's – and his – mess and he certainly couldn't take care of Sherlock while on crutches.

John left Sherlock's room and retreated to the sofa, lifting his wrapped ankle onto the table. He pulled out his mobile, scrolling through names.

Mycroft? No. Sherlock would never forgive him, not to mention that Mycroft, if he actually came, would just be a nuisance and John already had a headache.

Lestrade? No … a good chap but not a nurse.

Mrs. Hudson? She would hover annoyingly.

Molly? Yes. Molly would do anything for them and she had medical training, she'd be okay with nursing Sherlock back to health and helping John when he needed it. John hit the call button and put the phone to his ear.

"Hello, Molly? John Watson … I need a favour."

**Okay, so maybe it's a bit narrative in this chapter but I had to set the stage for … Molly! I always say this so I may as well say it again, I don't ship Molly and Sherlock but I think the relationship they have is cute. I'm excited to write Part 3 … and perhaps a Part 4 if the muses co-operate. That *should* be before Monday but no promises. **

**Reviews are much appreciated – thanks!**


	3. Part 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hello everyone! Hope you're all have a delightful weekend. Mine has been lovely (in case you can't tell, I'm in a good mood at the moment) and so I have celebrated a productive Saturday by finishing it off with Part 3. Surprise surprise … there will be at least one more part. I'm enjoying this too much to end it just yet. As always, thank you for your support – it means the world to me! Enjoy Part 3! **

John was waiting to hear the front door open and close – he had told Molly it was open – and after awhile, he dozed off.

Molly crept up the stairs, a bit uncomfortable with the situation although she couldn't say no when John explained what had happened. She had closed up the lab, run to Tesco's, and come straight over. As Molly climbed the last few stairs, she became aware of the awful smell emanating from the flat before she saw that John was asleep on the sofa. Going through the kitchen door, she set her bags on the counter. As she was emptying them, she dropped a can of soup onto the floor. It didn't break open, thankfully, but it was a loud enough noise for Molly to cringe.

John woke with a start.

"Who's there?" he mumbled, not fully in-tune. Molly stepped in from the kitchen looking sheepish.

"Sorry," she apologized, holding up the can.

"Oh, it's alright," John said with a yawn. Molly came into the sitting room.

"How are you feeling?" she asked nervously, aware of the smell again. She'd have to find where it was coming from eventually and either throw it out or clean it … but later. Patients first.

"Tired."

"Do you want anything? Your pillow or some medicine or ice?"

"All of the above," John said. "But I can get it."

That defeated the entire purpose, did it not? John was the one who called Molly … to take care of Sherlock. He didn't anticipate having to be taken care of himself but given the circumstances, he couldn't easily get any of the things he wanted.

"No, no," Molly answered quickly. "Stay right there, I'll get it all."

She was so eager to be helpful, so excited that someone had actually called her for help as a friend. Those calls did not come very often … never, really. It was nice to feel needed, even if Sherlock wouldn't even acknowledge her help.

Molly quickly found the prescriptions and, reading the bottles, counted out the dosage of each one and brought John a glass of juice and a biscuit.

"You have to take it with food," she explained, holding out the baked good. John nodded and took them from her.

"I'll get your pillow," Molly said, quickly leaving the room. She had never been upstairs in 221B but how different could it be? It was just a bedroom. Despite that fact, Molly darted in and out quickly, snagging the two pillows from the bed and tucking them under her arm. She returned and stood awkwardly in front of John.

"Uh, why don't you lie down?" she suggested, putting the two pillows at one end of the sofa. John, feeling just as uncomfortable, did as Molly said. Molly quickly gathered the few stray pillows from chairs and such and gently lifted John's foot, easing the pillows underneath. She returned a moment later with the icepack, gingerly setting it on the foot.

"Good?" she asked.

"Yeah, thanks."

"No problem …" Molly's voice trailed off and she began wringing her hands. "How is Sherlock?"

"He's in his bedroom," John said and Molly paled slightly at the very mention of Sherlock's bedroom. The doctor seriously hoped he was not going to regret calling Molly.

"I'm afraid," John continued. "He's a bit of a mess. I feel awful about asking you to clean him up but …"

Now it was John's voice who trailed off in embarrassment.

"No, no," Molly stammered. "It's okay. I'm happy to help, I'm glad you called. Let me know if you need anything, yeah?"

John nodded and Molly left the sitting room. She paused outside Sherlock's bedroom door, preparing herself for what she was about to see.

Molly turned the corner and her heart skipped a beat when she saw Sherlock. He was covered in sweat and the bin next to his bed was full of sick. He didn't acknowledge her presence and Molly wondered if he even knew she was there.

"Sherlock?" Molly asked, going to the other side of the bed and sitting on the edge. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Molly slid her hand onto Sherlock's forehead; he was burning up.

"Sherlock, you need to wake up, now." Molly put a bit more force into her words.

Sherlock was vaguely aware of a woman's voice telling him to wake up but why would he want to wake up? Waking up just meant feeling horrible, being aware of the misery of flu. Maybe the better question, Sherlock realized as he felt a cool and smooth hand on his forehead, was who was in his bedroom? It certainly wasn't John.

Of course, now he _had_ to open his eyes and when he did, he saw Molly Hooper starring down at him. He jumped in spite of himself, pulling his covers up instinctually. Why? He wasn't even undressed. Was pulling the blanket going to hide is embarrassment? Not likely. He felt _mortified_ that anyone besides John was seeing him like this. He wasn't supposed to exist like this.

"What are you doing here?" he croaked.

"John called me … he's hurt and couldn't take care of you."

"I don't need taking care of." Sherlock said stubbornly, feeling resentment towards John. Molly raised an eyebrow.

"Your bedroom begs to differ," she said. "As does your appearance."

"Appearances can be deceiving," Sherlock responded.

"But thermometers aren't." Molly quipped back. She wasn't entirely sure where this new brave self was coming from but she rather enjoyed it. Molly went around the bed and found the thermometer on the bedside table. She switched it on held it out towards Sherlock's lips, which remained closed.

"Sherlock, do not make me have to do this a different way because I will." Molly's voice was strong, despite the blush rising on her cheeks from her threat. Sherlock knew that Molly would not actually take his temperature any other way – the woman shrank in his very presence, there was no way she would access any part of his body without fainting – but he enjoyed seeing her so bold. It was refreshing and he opened his mouth, manipulating the thermometer probe under his tongue.

With Sherlock watching her, a thermometer in his mouth, Molly had to do _something_ so she took the rubbish bin and emptied it into the toilet before cleaning it out. Sherlock had to give her credit for that one – what a disgusting job. She returned with the clean bin just as the thermometer beeped and Molly pulled it from his mouth.

"Do you want to know?" Molly asked, setting it on the bedside table.

"No."

It was just a number, it wouldn't change how he felt. Molly turned back to Sherlock.

"We have to get you cleaned up," she said. "Do you want to take a bath or …"

Molly trailed off, blushing again. Sherlock bit his lip to keep from grinning. Poor Molly … if he said he didn't want to bathe, would she actually give him a sponge bath? There was only one way to find out.

"Dizzy," he muttered.

"What?"

"I'm dizzy," he repeated, trying to sound annoyed. "I can barely sit, much less make it to the bath."

Was he really going to make her do this? Molly wondered. It was a valid reason, she supposed, except that now she would have to clean him up _in his bed_.

Buck up, she thought. It's just Sherlock … he's just a man. You've seen men without their shirts off … they were dead, mind you, but that doesn't change anything.

"Fine, I'll be right back, okay?"

Molly left the bedroom, going into the kitchen to find a basin. After a bit of searching – and being disgusted by the kidney housed in a jar – she found one in the cupboard. She filled it with warm, soapy water and took it back to Sherlock's bedroom, a towel and a face cloth draped over her arm.

Molly set the basin on the bedside table.

"Do you think you can sit up a bit?" Molly asked, moving the duvet out of the way a bit. She pulled the extra pillow from the other side of the bed and when Sherlock obliged, she slid it in behind his back, covering it with the towel, so he was supported. Sherlock looked at her, somewhat expectantly, and Molly felt the blush return.

"Can you take your shirt off?"

The question came out quickly and Sherlock found it amusing to watch her struggle with the situation. It was quite cruel of him, actually, but it was the only thing that seemed to be making him feel better. Besides, he'd thank her when she was done and he was better … maybe. Sherlock peeled off the sweaty shirt and let it fall to the floor. Molly starred at him before she seemed to remember he could see her.

"Right, just relax, okay?" Molly said, dipping the washcloth in the water. She wrung it out and gently began wiping down Sherlock's neck and shoulders. This wasn't so bad, she thought. Molly relaxed a bit, surprised at how naturally this very maternal action came to her. Sherlock, too, was surprised at how Molly handled the situation. She worked gently and he felt his muscles loosen slightly. He didn't feel uncomfortable in her presence, half naked, and there was no hint of shame or judgement.

Molly worked quickly and soon, Sherlock's upper half was sweat-free and dry. Molly went to his bureau and found another t-shirt, which she helped him slip on.

"There," she said, a bit unnecessarily as she removed the pillow and towel from behind Sherlock's back so he could lie down again. Sherlock shifted onto his side – his stomach hurt – and Molly laid a hand on his forehead again.

"Your fever is awfully high," she murmured before leaving. She returned with the paracetamol and a glass of water.

"I want you to take these," she said, holding them out for Sherlock to take. He obliged – he knew it was the smart thing to do – and put them in his mouth, taking a quick sip of the water to wash them down. The sip was a bit _too_ quick and he started coughing as he choked on the water. Molly knew better than to thump him on the back – as long as he was coughing, he was breathing – and simply stood by the bed while he coughed.

The coughing did not go well with the upset stomach. Sherlock, who was still gasping for air, tried to imply he needed the bucket.

"Bucket," he gasped.

"What was that?" Molly asked, unable to understand him but it was too late. Sherlock leaned over and threw up all over the floor … and Molly's shoes.

**I'm actually super excited about writing more of this. Molly is such a fun character to write even though I've never written her before … and Sherlock is so cruel to her! **

**Reviews are appreciated =) **


	4. Part 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hi everyone! So posting before the weekend didn't really work out … but better late than never! I had a bit of a hard time with this chapter because I don't normally plan my stories out and when I sat down to write I was a bit like "I have no idea what I want them to do now …" But I got it figured out and I rather like this chapter. I hope you do too – and thank you, as always, for the encouragement! **

"Molly," Sherlock gasped, still coughing a bit. "I'm …"

Sherlock trailed off and Molly could tell that he was legitimately embarrassed by what had just happened.

"It's alright," Molly soothed, gently pushing Sherlock back. She reached over and took the facecloth, wringing it out before wiping Sherlock's mouth.

"Here." Molly handed the glass of water to Sherlock, who took it and drank a small sip before handing it back to her. He fell back to his pillows, feeling like his face was on fire. It wasn't that he cared what people thought of him or how strange he looked. It didn't matter … but this, this did matter. More than Sherlock cared to admit.

"Molly," Sherlock said again, his voice hoarse.

"It's alright," Molly said again, keeping her eyes trained on the cloth she was wringing.

"No, it's not. The floor …"

"I'll clean it, don't worry."

"And your shoes …" Sherlock sounded out of breath.

"You need to calm down," Molly said firmly, placing the compress on Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock swallowed, the taste of vomit still lingering; he hated being calm. Being calm was boring and yet it was all his body could handle at the moment.

Molly slipped out of her shoes and in stocking feet, left to find a bucket of hot, soapy water in the kitchen.

"What are you doing?" John asked sleepily from the sofa.

"Looking for a bucket." Molly said, moving various cleaning supplies around under the sink to free the blue pail.

"Why?"

"I've got to clean the floor."

John registered what Molly said and was aware of water running but it took a moment before he understood what was going on. By the time he had raised his head to speak, he heard Molly and the bucket of sloshing water heading back down the hall and he left his head fall back to the pillow. The medication made him so sleepy and it didn't take very long for John to be lost to dreams again, despite knowing how ill Sherlock was.

Molly carefully picked her shoes from the puddle of vomit and put them in a plastic bag she had stuck in her pocket. She'd clean them in the sink next but the floor needed attention. Dropping to her hands and knees, Molly cleaned up the mess quickly before scrubbing the floor down with the contents of the bucket.

"There," she said cheerfully, standing. "All done."

She reached over to lay a hand on Sherlock's cheek but Sherlock pushed her away.

"You just cleaned vomit off the floor."

Molly rolled her eyes but went into the bathroom, washed her hands, and returned. This time when her hand neared Sherlock's face, Sherlock didn't protest. Molly frowned slightly.

"Are you hungry?"

"How could I be hungry after vomiting? What a stupid question."

"Sorry." Molly said, shrinking back a bit. "Would you like some tea?"

"No, I don't need your help. Just leave me alone." Sherlock had rolled to his side, the compress slipping off and Molly fought the urge to correct it.

"I'll be in the sitting room if you need anything. Just … just call."

Her voice had lost its boldness and she slunk out of the room like a dog with its tail between its legs.

Sherlock knew he had hurt Molly's feelings and John would probably make him apologize eventually but he didn't care. He had been touched by Molly's gestures, the level of care she seemed to have for him and John … and then he had to do something stupid like throw up on her. The simple solution? Remove Molly and he removed the chance to embarrass himself again.

* * *

Molly closed the door to Sherlock's room. She took her shoes to the sink and cleaned them off – they had seen worse than vomit, she worked in a morgue, after all – before setting them by a radiator to dry.

Now what? she wondered. John was sleeping, Sherlock was sleeping … both of her patients were content for the moment. Molly found her bag and pulled out her knitting. She didn't tell anyone she knit mainly because between that and her love of cats, it made her sound like an old woman. It wasn't very becoming and it certainly deterred men from wanting to date her.

Molly settled herself in Sherlock's chair and began knitting. The flat was filled with nothing but the click of her needles.

* * *

The evening wore on and Molly, after an hour of knitting, was bored. She wondered if she would have to stay for the night or if John could manage Sherlock. Where would she sleep? She didn't have anything to stay over … a change of clothes, toothbrush, nothing. Molly began studying the flat. It was odd being surrounded by so many things of Sherlock's … the man she idolized, the man whose name she couldn't even put on her blog without blushing. Everything about the flat had Sherlock's touch and she wasn't surprised by any of it. The skull wearing headphones, the map of Britain, the Union Jack pillow, the clutter of books, the chemistry equipment, the state of the art microscope, the smiley face on the wall. Molly wondered what had prompted that.

The flat was eerily quiet. It was one of those moments that Molly didn't realize it until she thought about it. She could hear John snoring softly – he was drugged into a deep sleep – as well as the tick of a clock. Outside, she heard the customary traffic and sirens of central London. Molly was lost in her thoughts again – and nodding off to sleep – when she heard another noise. This was not a pleasant one, either, but rather one that told her Sherlock was awake.

Molly got up from her chair and went down the hall.

"Sherlock?" she asked quietly, opening the door slightly. "Are you okay?"

Molly pushed the door open further and saw Sherlock sitting in is bed, grasping the bin. He was covered in sweat again and he was breathing hard. Molly went to his side.

"It's alright," she soothed, rubbing his back as he was sick again. "You'll be alright, just let it out."

Molly felt her heart rate increase when she saw blood in what Sherlock was bringing up. It was probably just because he'd been throwing up so much, she told herself, but she would still have to ask John when he woke up.

"Done?" Molly asked a moment later. Sherlock nodded, damp curls bouncing slightly, and Molly took the bin from him and went straight to the bathroom to empty it. She returned to find Sherlock shaking violently and tears streaming down his face.

"It's alright, Sherlock," she repeated. "There's no need to cry."

"I'm not doing it on purpose." Sherlock snapped. "I can't stop shaking and I can't stop crying."

"Oh." Molly felt a bit stupid. "Uh …"

She had never heard of a problem like this … how to solve it?

"Lie down," Molly said, pushing Sherlock back. She could feel him trembling.

"Try taking some deep breaths; just bring your heart rate down."

Molly found the face cloth and wet it, wiping the tear tracks from Sherlock's face but fresh tears simply fell. She didn't know what to do; she didn't know what was causing this. She was a pathologist, not a GP. She wasn't trained in dealing with live people. Fumbling with the small button, Molly turned the thermometer on and stuck it in Sherlock's mouth. She wondered if Sherlock was afraid … he certainly looked afraid. He had lost control of his body, he couldn't make it do what he wanted. It was betraying him.

The thermometer beeped and Molly pulled it out of Sherlock's mouth. The good news was that the temperature wasn't sky high – an uncomfortable for Sherlock, good for Molly 39.1 degrees. The bad news was that didn't explain why he couldn't stop shaking.

"Okay, Sherlock," Molly said, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking straight at Sherlock.

"Look at me, focus on me. Take a deep breath, focus on just calming yourself down. It's a mind trick; tell your mind to stop."

Molly had never been locked in such a deep eye contact with Sherlock but this time, her thoughts were only focused on getting Sherlock to stop shaking.

"Good, take another one." Molly instructed. She could tell Sherlock was concentrating hard, he was barely blinking. He continued taking deep breaths and Molly felt the convulsions lessen slightly. It was working.

"Keep going, you're doing well," Molly said encouragingly. Soon, only Sherlock's left hand was experiencing a slight spasm and the tears had stopped. Sherlock looked exhausted from the unconscious occurrence.

"I'm going to give you some more medicine, alright?" Molly said, measuring out the anti-vomiting medicine without leaving her spot on the edge of the bed. She felt very maternal and it surprised her. She had never thought she'd be comfortable in a position like this, especially not with Sherlock. Sherlock barely lifted his head and he swallowed the medicine.

"Do you want some water?" Molly asked and Sherlock swallowed. His mouth was dry and tasted like vomit and artificially flavoured grape medicine. He knew he should drink some water so he nodded. Molly slipped her hand behind his head, lifting him enough to take a few sips.

"Good," Molly said as Sherlock's head hit the pillow again. "Maybe after you get some sleep, you can eat something."

Sherlock nodded again and closed his eyes, not wanting to think about food now. In the future, sure, but not now. The detective felt Molly wiping down his face with the compress … it felt wonderful, the cool water on his skin.

"You should go back to sleep," Molly said softly. "I'll be in the sitting room if you need anything, alright?"

Sherlock cracked open his eyes and reached a hand out, grasping Molly's wrist as she stood up to leave.

"Stay … please."

He didn't know what prompted him to say those words and he really didn't care. Molly, on the other hand, turned a bright pink.

"Al … Alright." she stuttered. She didn't know why Sherlock wanted her to stay but if he asked, she would do just about anything. Molly sat down on the edge of the bed again, picking up the compress. She began dabbing at Sherlock's forehead and neck.

"Just go to sleep," she whispered.

Sherlock was almost already there. There was something comforting about having Molly look after him … having anyone look after him, really. John had taken care of him a couple of times – against his will, he would add – but this was different. John was a fantastic doctor – the best, he hadn't been lying – but he lacked what Molly had: a woman's touch. It was completely different being taken care of by a member of the opposite sex. Sherlock wasn't sure what it was – he certainly didn't care for Molly like she cared form him – but it was comforting having her there. And although he would never admit it to anyone, he was frightened by what had just happened. He had just lost complete control and he didn't want to be alone if it happened again.

So Sherlock fell asleep with Molly at his bedside.

**What do you think? Reviews are always appreciated =) **


	5. Part 5

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hi everyone! Another weekend, another chapter … and this one is inspired by my own health crisis at the moment (nothing too serious, just a cold but well, it's enough to be annoying!) It's just been one of those nights were I sat down to write and words just flowed. It was glorious. I have now figured out an ending so there's one more chapter after this, plus an epilogue. I hope you enjoy! **

After Sherlock fell asleep, Molly positioned the compress on his forehead and stood up slowly. She watched the mattress recoil from where she'd been sitting and held her breath as Sherlock muttered something under his breath but thankfully, he didn't wake up. The young pathologist left the room for a moment. She had remembered that there was a particular odour emanating from the sitting room that needed cleaning up. When she had first walked in, she didn't know what it had been but now she knew. Molly must've gotten used to it while she was knitting after Sherlock's first episode but the second episode had triggered her memory.

As quietly as Molly could, she scouted the sitting room for the smell and found it promptly in the magazine holder. Wrinkling her nose, Molly decided the holder could be saved with a run through the washing machine. Of course, the contents were ruined and Molly picked out the vomit-covered magazines with a disgusted look on her face, depositing them in a garbage bag before taking both the bag and the canvas shell downstairs. She tossed the bag by the front door and left the canvas soaking in the small sink near the washer.

After that was taken care of and Molly had washed her hands, she returned to Sherlock's room holding a blanket from the sitting room. He had wanted her to stay so she was going to be there when he woke up but instead of the bed, Molly opted for the arm chair. She snuggled into it, tucking her feet under her, and draped the blanket around her. The room was a bit chilly – good for the fever, bad for the caretaker – but the blanket was nice and warm. By now, it was well into the night and Molly found herself yawning. Every time her eyelids drooped, she would force herself awake but little by little, she slowly fell asleep.

* * *

John's eyes fluttered open. This wasn't his bedroom; where was he? Why did his back hurt? Why was his foot numb?

There were so many questions and it took John a minute to realize he was on the sofa in the sitting room. A glance at his elevated foot told him the rest. He had hurt himself – concussion and sprained ankle – and couldn't manage the stairs. Molly had settled him on the sofa before tending to Sherlock.

Molly … where was she? John glanced around and saw her bag but not the woman herself. Sherlock … was he alright? He had been ill … was he recovering?

The doctor sat up slowly. Despite the sore back, he felt pretty good. His headache was gone and his vision was clear. His stomach growled – another good sign – and the blood started to flow back into his foot as he took it down from the stack of pillows. The crutches were leaning against the wall and John grasped them with disgust – he hated crutches – and pulled himself to his feet. He clumsily manoeuvred around the table and went into the kitchen.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

John was surprised to find his best friend sitting at one of the bar stools, blanket draped around his shoulders as he peered into a microscope.

"Experiment."

"I meant what are you doing out of bed?"

Sherlock pulled away from the microscope and John got his first real look at the detective. He was still pale and tired looking, not to mention his face had thinned quite a bit.

"Why would I be in bed?" Sherlock said, continuing with a sigh. "I feel fine."

"Nausea gone? Fever down?" John asked with a raised eyebrow. Sherlock didn't answer right away and John knew the answer. But instead of berating Sherlock for being up, he asked where Molly was.

"Sleeping." Sherlock answered, looking back into the microscope. "I don't know why she is in my bedroom, but she is."

John wordlessly – but far from silently – hobbled to Sherlock's room. Molly was fast asleep in the arm chair, snoring slightly.

"Molly …" John said, trying to gently wake her up.

"Molly!" he repeated, a bit louder. Molly jumped and her cheeks instantly turned red when she realized she was in Sherlock's bedroom.

"I .. I'm sorry, I mean … Sherlock, he asked me to stay but nothing happened. Goodness, of course nothing happened, he's _ill_ but," Molly glanced at the bed. "Where is he?"

Her voice trailed off and John felt sorry for the flustered woman.

"It's okay," John said, not sure to which part he was referring. "Sherlock's in the kitchen."

Molly stood up, straightening her sweater and running a hand over her ponytail. It didn't feel too messed up … she hoped she didn't have drool or anything on her face.

"What's he doing there? Why isn't he in bed?"

"He feels better, supposedly. He's working on an experiment."

"Oh." Molly said awkwardly. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine." John said quickly and just as awkwardly. He wasn't used to being taken care of … that wasn't his role.

"Good. Are you hungry?"

"Starving."

"Good," Molly repeated. "I'll make us some breakfast."

"No, you're our guest. I'll make it."

"No," Molly argued. "You shouldn't be on your feet too much. I'll make it, I don't mind. Come on, back to the sofa."

Molly could be persuasive when she wanted to be and John felt he had no other option other than to go back to the sitting room and sit on the sofa, raising his leg to rest on the coffee table.

"What are you working on?" Molly asked Sherlock, inspecting the contents of their refrigerator.

"Experiment." Sherlock answered simply.

"What kind of experiment?"

Molly pulled the ham and eggs from the mostly empty fridge, although she quickly put the ham back – it was growing something and she assumed Sherlock had used it for a culture. The eggs appeared fine and Molly lit the stove, planning on making some scrambled eggs and toast.

"Fungi."

Sherlock wished Molly would just shut up and let him work. If he was working, he wasn't aware of how awful he felt. He also wished Molly wouldn't make food … while he felt better from yesterday, his stomach was still rather queasy.

Sherlock was surprised when the backlight of his microscope was turned off. He pulled away, looking immediately to see what had caused the power loss. He was taken aback when he saw Molly standing next to him, her finger on the switch.

"Go join John," she said firmly.

"No."

"Sherlock," Molly said, wondering how she was able to become so bold so quickly. "Maybe after breakfast you can keep going but for now, you need to eat so go join John in the sitting room and I'll be out with some tea and toast in a few minutes."

"I'm not hungry."

"Then go back to bed," Molly said. "And I'll bring you some tea there."

Sherlock stood up, feeling annoyed once again that John had called someone in to look after him. He didn't need looking after, he was fine. The detective collapsed onto the sofa next to John, who was giving him an amused look.

"Not a word." Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes. John bit his tongue, still smiling. It was amusing to see little, timid Molly boss Sherlock Holmes around.

Molly came in a few minutes later with a tray of tea and breakfast. She set it down on the coffee table, narrowly avoiding John's foot.

"I'll get your pills, John," she said, leaving them to survey the food. It looked alright, Sherlock reasoned as he took the plate in his hands. It even smelled good. He tentatively took a bite of the eggs, which turned out to be a mistake.

It wasn't that the eggs were bad – they were quite good, actually – but his stomach, upon realizing he had food in his mouth, had clenched and Sherlock knew he was going to vomit. Tripping over John's extended leg, which made John cry out in pain, Sherlock ran to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Molly came into the living room, glancing back towards the bathroom.

"Is it that bad?" she asked nervously. John shook his head.

"No, it tastes fine," he assured her even though he hadn't tasted anything yet. "I think it's just a bit too soon for him."

Molly handed the pills to John.

"Should I make sure he's alright?"

"Give him a few minutes and I'll check on him." John smiled at Molly. "He gets annoyed when I even mention he needs to eat something or get some sleep. He's just not used to having people look after him, much less you."

Molly sank into a chair, a nervous smile still on her face.

"You should eat while it's still warm," she said off hand. She was worried about Sherlock; she didn't doubt he'd get better, it was just a case of flu after all, but she had never seen him so … weak. So human.

**As always, your reviews and support are a huge encouragement! No promises on the next chapter but hopefully there's one more this weekend. Fingers crossed! **

**Reviews are always appreciated! **


	6. Part 6

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hi everyone! So now that I feel human again, I'm stalling … I have a midterm on Tuesday that I **_**really**_** don't want to study for so I decided to write the last official part of the story … epilogue to follow soon, depending how much studying I actually get done today. Anyways, enjoy! **

John finished his breakfast, finding Molly's blank stare rather uncomfortable.

"Did you have enough?" Molly asked when John set the plate on the coffee table and reached for his crutches.

"What? Oh, yes. Thank you."

"Not a problem," Molly said standing with John.

"I'm going to check on Sherlock," John replied, hoping Molly would take the hint and _not_ follow him.

"Sure, I'm going to wash up."

Perfect, John thought. He made his way through the flat – the kitchen was hard because it was so narrow – and knocked on Sherlock's door.

"Go away, Molly," Sherlock grumbled from his bed. He felt awful; he just wanted to be left alone and not have Molly Hooper hovering over him.

"It's me," John said, pressing his face to the door. "Can I come in?"

Oh, it was John. John was okay.

"Yes."

The door swung open and John came in, shutting the door behind him.

"Are you alright?"

Sherlock glared at him from his nest of pillows and blankets before letting the glare fade. He pushed the heels of his palms into his eyes, rubbing them violently.

"No."

"You threw up again?"

"Obviously."

"What's your temperature at?"

Sherlock shrugged, reaching for the thermometer on the bedside table. He turned it on and stuck it in his mouth.

"You should sit," he said, talking around the plastic probe. John obliged and sat on the edge of the bed. The thermometer beeped a moment later and Sherlock glanced at it before handing it to John.

"That's not so bad," John said encouragingly, turning the device off and putting it back where it had been resting. "38.3 isn't anything to complain about."

"You're one to talk," Sherlock muttered. For such a low fever, it sure made him feel gross. Not to mention what fevers did to his mind; he had a distinct memory of asking Molly to stay with him last night while tears streamed down his face. Why was that? Obviously, he _had_ asked her to stay, hence her sleeping in his arm chair but _why_ would Sherlock ask her to stay? And why had he been crying? Fevers, simply put, messed with his mind and he didn't like it.

"Can Molly leave now?" Sherlock asked, pulling his blankets closer.

"Sherlock, I - "

"Please?" Sherlock said as sincerely as he could. "I'm not that ill anymore, not so much that I can't manage to get myself a cup of tea."

John hesitated. It wasn't that he disliked Molly but she was awkward and now that he'd slept for almost twelve hours straight, he wasn't tired and he didn't know what he'd do if Molly was around all day. Besides, didn't she have to go to work?

"I'll see what I can do, okay? But in the meantime, try to go back to sleep."

"I'm not tired."

"Your body needs rest, Sherlock."

"Fine," he grumbled. "Tell Molly I'll be by later this week do to an experiment."

John nodded and got up from Sherlock's bed. He went into the kitchen where Molly was drying their breakfast dishes.

"If you need to get to work, Sherlock and I will be fine," John said, hoping that didn't sound too rude.

"Are you sure?" Molly asked. "I can call in if you need me to stay. How is Sherlock?"

"Trying to get some sleep," John answered. "And really, Molly, we'll be fine. Mrs. Hudson is home if we need anything."

"If you're sure you'll be alright," Molly said, glancing at the clock and hanging her towel to dry. "Then I'll be on my way."

John followed her into the living room and watched her collect her bags although the doctor had to ask why her shoes were against the radiator.

"Sherlock threw up on them."

She said this so matter-of-factly that it didn't seem to bother Molly but John wrinkled his nose as he watched her slip her stocking feet back into them.

"Oh, there are some cans of soup in the cupboard," Molly remembered as she was pulling on her coat.

"Thanks."

"And the magazine rack is soaking in the tub downstairs."

"Right."

Molly stood awkwardly by the door looking at John.

"Uh, well, I guess I'll see you later, then."

"I'm sure. Sherlock said he'd come by later this week for an experiment … thank you for all your help, Molly. It's really appreciated."

"No worries. Call if you need anything else, anything at all, alright?"

John smiled and nodded. He watched Molly leave and heard the front door close. He breathed a sigh of relief … he liked Molly alright but sometimes she just hovered. It was awkward and uncomfortable.

"You can come out now," John called down the hall as he sank into his chair. "She's gone."

John knew Sherlock was neither sleeping nor trying to sleep and he heard Sherlock's feet hit the floor. A moment later, Sherlock appeared with pillow and blanket in hand.

"Thank goodness," he mumbled, tossing John's pillows off the sofa and replacing them with his. He sank onto the cushions and drew his blanket around him.

"Be fair," John said. "She did clean up both of our sick. That deserves a little credit."

"I suppose," Sherlock said, eyes closed already. "But honestly, how hard is it to clean a floor?"

"And don't forget she stayed with you last night, which you apparently asked of her."

Sherlock's eyes flew open.

"That's not my fault," he said indignantly. "It was the fever talking."

"And throwing up on her shoes? Was that the fever, too?"

"I didn't do it on purpose. You would've realized that I needed the bin."

"I would have realized if I hadn't tripped over you in the kitchen and sprained my ankle, you mean." John shot back.

"It's not my fault you didn't turn on the light." Sherlock said huffily.

"Face it, Sherlock. We needed her help and I think that you were grateful that she was there last night."

Sherlock didn't answer but rolled over and shut his eyes tightly. John grinned; his friend could be such a child sometimes. Even so, John knew that Sherlock _had_ been grateful for Molly's help … even if he wouldn't admit it.

**Poor Molly … reviews are always appreciated! Your support, as always, is super encouraging =) **


	7. Part 7

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hi everyone! So it must be a weekend … oh look. It is. So logically, here's another chapter … the final one, even. Thank you, as always, for your support and I hope you enjoy what is technically the epilogue!**

How was this fair? Molly wondered as she huddled under her blankets. She did something nice for someone and _this_ is how karma repaid her? Molly closed her eyes, wishing it away.

* * *

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked, waltzing into the morgue. A young college student was working at the sink, cleaning instruments. She jumped when Sherlock spoke.

"Amanda," she answered. "I'm the work-study student from – "

"Yes, fascinating, where is Molly?" Sherlock didn't really care about who this girl was. He needed Molly to wheel out a body for him.

"She called in sick," Amanda answered, rather intimidated under Sherlock's hard stare. "Can I help you with something?"

Sherlock sighed. He didn't want to have to deal with some new girl but since she was offering, he asked her to wheel out the corpse.

"I'm sorry, I don't have authorization to - "

"Molly does it all the time. It's fine." Sherlock snapped. "Just do it."

Amanda decided she really did not like this man.

"I'd better call to make sure," she stammered reaching for the phone.

* * *

Phone … phone was ringing. Molly reached blindly and found her mobile on the table, knocking over a glass of juice in the process.

"'Ello?" she muttered. Amanda filled her in.

"Go ahead, it's fine." Molly told her before hanging up.

* * *

Amanda hung up the phone and turned to Sherlock.

"What was the name again?"

Sherlock told her, not bothering to smile. Molly had agreed so there was no need to charm Amanda. The body was moved and soon Sherlock was leaning over it, aware that Amanda was watching him closely.

"Can you please stop being so annoying?" he asked. "Go study or something."

Terrified more than anything else, Amanda left the morgue and Sherlock sighed. A nagging feeling had developed in his stomach when he heard Molly was out sick. No, he tried to convince himself. It was just coincidence … okay, probably not but he hadn't _asked_ her to come and look after him. It wasn't his fault he threw up on her shoes. He had no obligations what-so-ever to the pathologist who, at this moment, was probably feeling like she belonged in a morgue herself.

These thoughts swarmed in Sherlock's head, making it difficult to focus.

"Go away," he muttered under his breath, eyes still focused on a specific tattoo design. The thoughts, nor the feelings, went away and he stood up, sighing. Was he really going to do this?

When Amanda returned to the morgue, the body was still on the table but Sherlock was no where to be seen.

* * *

Molly, who was lucky enough to be asleep, became vaguely aware that someone was watching her. She dared to open her eyes and nearly screamed when she saw a man sitting on her window sill. It took her a minute to recognize the familiar mop of curls and tailored suit.

"Sherlock?" she exclaimed, pulling her sheets up. "What are you doing here?"

"I wish I wasn't," Sherlock replied bluntly. "But I believe social convention dictates that I have to return a favour."

"What?" Molly asked. Her brain was not functioning properly … what was Sherlock saying about social convention?

"Never mind." Sherlock said. Some people … idiots, really. But Molly wasn't an idiot … she was just … ill.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked. He was uncomfortable with the situation but, given his recent experience as the one in the bed, he felt this was the right question to ask.

"Sick," Molly answered. "Headache, nausea, fever. The whole works."

"Lovely. Coordination was lacking, I assume. You spilled your juice on the floor."

"Phone was ringing," Molly answered, closing her eyes. She didn't bother to see if Sherlock had cleaned it up – he had, for the record. Her stomach was churning and she really did not want to have to get out of bed, lest Sherlock see her kitten-covered pyjama pants.

Sherlock could tell Molly was fighting nausea – was that what he had looked like? he wondered – and took the initiative of fetching a bin from the bathroom and handing it to her. While Molly did not have to get out of bed now, she still had to throw up which was disgusting but nature dictated and a moment later she had vomited up everything in her system.

"Here." Sherlock handed her a fresh glass of water and took the bin, gagging slightly as he did so.

"Thanks." Molly said, sipping the cool liquid and feeling it run down her throat and into her empty stomach. Sherlock returned with the empty bin – Molly noted it was lined with plastic now – and set it on the floor before laying a strong hand on Molly's forehead.

"Fever's at … 38.5." Sherlock said. Molly glanced up at him, wondering how he could tell by just feeling.

"But because you're like John, here." Sherlock held out the thermometer and stuck it under Molly's tongue when she opened her mouth. A moment later, Sherlock pulled it out.

"38.7?" he read incredulously. He glanced at the thermostat in the room, noting it was a bit warmer than what he kept their flat at. That would explain the incorrect guess … his temperature gauge was calibrated incorrectly to this surrounding.

"Have you taken paracetamol?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Around ten this morning, I think."

Sherlock checked his watch; it was only 12:30, too soon to take another dose. Now what?

Molly answered that question for him when she began coughing. Sherlock, in one swift movement, had her sitting up and leaning over the bin. How did he just _do_ that? That was a doctor instinct and Sherlock wasn't a doctor. Interesting. Maybe more interesting was the fact that upon leaning over the bin, Molly's long hair had fallen forward and Sherlock had gathered it in his free hand, keeping it out of the mess.

Molly threw up again, painfully dry heaving at the end as there was nothing left for her to regurgitate. Sherlock wordlessly handed her the glass of water and left with the bin again. The entire afternoon had better not be like this; it was tedious, not to mention gross.

Sadly for Sherlock and perhaps more sadly for Molly, the afternoon did not get any better. Molly kept throwing up bile that eventually became mixed with spots of blood.

"Is that normal?" Sherlock asked after one particularly bad bout.

"Is what normal?"

"Throwing up blood like that."

Molly nodded.

"It's just because I keep dry heaving. It's fine."

"Did I throw up blood?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

Sherlock didn't know what to say but he did note that Molly was now shining with sweat. He went into her bathroom – it was painted pink, which he found a bit repulsive – and wet a cloth under the tap. Molly's eyes were closed when he returned and he took the liberty of wiping down her face and neck. She sighed softly at the cool touch. Sherlock checked his watch again, relieved that he could give her some more medicine now. Because her medicine cabinet was more fully stocked that theirs, Sherlock had found some cold and flu medicine that said it would stop all of … well, _this_ ... and he brought the box back to Molly's room. He counted out a dose for her and watched her swallow before encouraging her to finish the glass of water, insisting it was better to vomit up water than to dry heave.

As evening fell, John texted Sherlock, asking him where he was.

_Out. Don't wait up. SH. _

Sherlock slipped his mobile into his jacket, which was hanging off a chair. He had long ago discarded the blazer and rolled up his sleeves to deal with Molly's continuous need to vomit.

"Go to sleep," he instructed Molly. "I'll still be here."

It was a bit bold, maybe, but he knew that Molly was a bit nervous to fall asleep and wake up to find Sherlock had left. Or maybe she was uncomfortable with the idea of Sherlock watching her sleep. Well, she needn't worry. He may stay in the room but he'd be thinking about the body at the morgue and he certainly wouldn't leave all together. Not when she was this ill.

The medicine began to take effect and Molly drifted off to sleep. Sherlock sighed; this doctoring bit was challenging. He did not envy John … nor did he understand why John liked it so much.

Sherlock meandered through Molly's flat … he wasn't snooping, just observing. She liked to knit, he realized, and she liked cats. Not a hard deduction, perhaps, but true all the same. Sherlock made himself a cuppa and, with nothing better to do, returned to the sitting room. Well. This was dull. Sherlock sighed, wondering what had prompted him to give into sentiment. He never cared about doing this with anyone else … but then again, this had never happened with anyone else (thankfully!).

Ugh. This made his brain hurt.

Sherlock finished his cup of tea and went into the fridge … he had an experiment in mind to help pass the time till Molly woke up.

**Okay, that may have been a tad predictable but hey. It was fun to write and cute in my mind. **

**Reviews are always appreciated and thank you for reading!**

**~StoryLover18 **


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